Pornochic
The moon cast long, silver fingers through the window, painting Mariska’s silhouette as she stood waiting, her breath a faint cloud in the cool night air. Ricky’s arrival was not a sound but a shift in the atmosphere, his presence a warmth that met the chill. He moved closer, his shadow merging with hers against the wall, a silent communion in the dim light. His hand found the curve of her waist, a touch so gentle it felt like a question. She leaned into him, her head finding its home against his shoulder, her eyes closing as she breathed him in. In that quiet space, the world with its complications, with Tiffany’s laughter and Luke’s brooding gaze, simply fell away. His lips brushed her temple, a whisper of a kiss that held more promise than any declaration. A tremor ran through her, not of fear, but of a profound and terrifying hope blossoming in her chest. This secret, held in the shadows, felt more real than all their sunlit hours. They stood there, two souls woven together by the quiet thread of a shared, forbidden truth.
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